Some Things Are Hard To Say
by Riri Goei
Summary: "When can you ever forgive me, abuelita?" Santana attempts to reconcile with her beloved abuelita, all the while revisiting happy childhood memories with her.
1. Cinnamon Cookies

**Hey guys, it's Riri Goei here with a brand new story. This time, it's all about Santana and her beloved abuelita. Her problem with her abuelita really touched me, so I decided to write a story about it.**

Chapter One: Cinnamon Cookies

NOW

She stops in front of the door.

It is painted green, with a golden brass handle and a gaping keyhole underneath. An old-fashioned bell, rusty by age, hangs by the left side of the door. A silver wind chime tinkles in the hot, summer wind.

She can hear movement from inside the house. She knows the person she's looking for is home. All she has to do is ring the bell, and that familiar face will pop up in front of her. But her stomach constricts every time she reaches out for the bell; all the courage she had mustered for months simply disappears within seconds.

But, she reminds herself, she didn't come all this way to chicken out. She is Santana Lopez, for goodness sake. She isn't afraid of anything. She should stop being a pathetic wimp and ring the bell. How hard can it possibly be?

Taking a deep breath, she reaches for the bell again. Her fingers hover in front of the string and, for the hundredth time that morning, she finds herself unable to pull it.

She clutches her hands close to her chest, cursing under her breath. _Where is your bravery, Santana? If anyone at school ever sees you like this, you'll be Lima's laughingstock for the next year._

She surprises herself then by grabbing the string and giving it a long, hard pull.

_Ding! Ding! Ding!_

Once she realizes what her hand had done on impulse, she covers her mouth and takes a step back. The sound of the brass bell rings adamantly inside her head; it sets her teeth on edge and her stomach churning.

"Who is it?" That beautiful, beautiful voice she has missed for so long. "Just a minute!"

She straightens her clothes, tucks her flowing dark hair back, and folds her hands neatly in front of her lap. Her heart trembles in its socket.

The door opens.

She doesn't know who looks more surprised – her or her abuelita. Over the few months she hasn't seen her, Abuelita Alma hasn't changed one bit. Her hair is still the same reddish brown; her deep, compassionate eyes are in the color of warm tea; her kind face is filled with wrinkles and creases. Santana is reminded once again of how like her father Abuelita Alma is. She wonders, not for the first time, if she will look like her abuelita once she is older.

"Abuela," Santana offers her grandmother her warmest smile. "It's been a while."

Abuelita Alma's smile turns quickly into a tight-lipped scowl. Her eyes radiate anger and disappointment – things Santana doesn't see very often in her.

"What are you doing here?" her voice is cold and sour, unlike her usual loving voice.

Santana tries to swallow her bitterness as she explains. "I am on summer break from school. I am home for two weeks, at least. Then I'll have to go back to New York. I… thought I could pay you a visit, abuelita." She tries another smile. "It's been a while."

A wonderful smell wafts through Santana's nose then; a familiar smell, a smell that resembles her abuelita very well…

_Cinnamon cookies,_ Santana thinks. _Abuelita is making cinnamon cookies. My favorite_.

"New York?" Abuelita Alma snaps Santana back into reality. "Found a new _lover_ there already?"

Santana's heart aches. Her abuelita can always be hurtful once she chooses to be so. "Abuelita, I'm not here to fight," she says pleadingly. "I'm here to talk to you. I miss you, abuelita. Can't we please talk? Just like the good old days?"

"I'm busy," her abuelita answers, nostrils flaring. "I think you should go."

She slams the door in Santana's face.

There are tears in Santana's eyes as she walks down the steps of the house and back into her car.

* * *

THEN

"Abuelita! Abuelita!"

The door was painted blue. The bell was shiny, its voice shrill and loud as Santana pulled at the string enthusiastically.

The door opened. Abuelita Alma was wearing her favorite summer dress, a pink-and-white checkered dress that reached to her knees. A green baking glove was on her right hand.

"Santana!" She laughed as her seven-year-old granddaughter enveloped her in a hug. "Now where did you pop from, _ángel_?"

"Mama's busy so I have no one to play with," the little girl whined.

"Well, you arrived just in time – I'm making your favorite cinnamon cookies!"

Santana's eyes were wide with excitement. "Cinnamon cookies – _me gusta_! _Gracias, abuelita_!" She ran into the house, eager to get her hands on the freshly baked cookies. Abuelita Alma's cinnamon cookies were the best.

Abuelita Alma laughed as she closed the blue-painted door behind her.

**I apologize for any mistakes in the Spanish words. My only tool is Google translate.**


	2. Rosebushes

**Thank you to everyone who followed and favorited this story. And KlaineForeverLover07 – still my best and most loyal reviewer. Thank you.**

**This story is still a work in progress, so I'd love to read your thoughts and feedbacks on it. Please review, follow, favorite, share, etc. Thank you!**

Chapter Two: Rosebushes

NOW

Her second attempt at reconciliation does not work out well either.

She stops her car in front of Abuelita Alma's house. As soon as she turns off the ignition, she realizes that her abuelita is outside on her garden, crouched in front of her rosebushes.

Abuelita Alma has a thing for roses. She used to sell them once in the market when she was little. She has a rose-incented perfume. Her bedroom wallpaper is patterned with roses. She would make small wreaths from the flower, and she would put their petals on a bowl of water by her bedside. She still does that; she still puts a bowl of fragranced rose water by her bedside. She told Santana once that the smell helped her sleep.

Abuelita Alma's rosebushes are thick and full of roses. There are bright red ones in one corner, with soft pink and white ones around them. Last summer her abuelita had wanted to plant a yellow rosebush, but once the flowers appeared she decided she did not like the color, and switched back to various shades of crimson.

Santana is thinking of all this when her abuelita's head snaps up from her rosebushes and finds her face.

Immediately, her expression turns sour. She gets up, spade and garden scissors still in her gloved hands, and darts for the front door.

Santana scrambles out of her seat. "Abuelita," she calls. "Abuelita, please don't go."

She is too late. Abuelita Alma has disappeared into her fortress of a house, and locked the door shut.

* * *

THEN

"Why do they come in different colors, abuelita?"

The eight-year-old Santana was sitting on Abuelita Alma's lap, twirling a pink rose in her hands, while the older woman was busily tending her rosebushes – clipping wilted flowers, cutting down wild leaves, and watering them.

"They just do, _mi amor_," Abuelita Alma had answered, tossing a brown rose bud into her waste bucket. "Just like us humans, we have different hair and skin colors, no? Flowers are the same."

Santana mulled this over in her brain for a moment. "Why do we have to look different?" she asked, looking up at her grandmother with a frown. "Why can't we all be the same?"

Abuelita Alma put down her garden scissors and lifted her granddaughter's chin. "We are different," she explained, "because we are all unique. We all have our own talents, our own special gifts. Like you, my pretty one, you can sing and dance. You have shiny black hair and the perfect brown eyes that make you beautiful. Me, I cannot sing and dance. My hair is not as shiny or smooth as yours. If everybody was the same, if everybody could sing and dance and have black hair, wouldn't it be boring?"

Santana thought about this for some time. "So… different is good?" she had asked.

Abuelita Alma laughed. "I think so, _mi amor_," she said. "What makes you different makes you special. And you –" She patted Santana's nose, who giggled. " – are special."

"You think I am special, abuelita?" Santana's eyes were wide with excitement.

Abuelita Alma wrapped her in a tight hug. "The most special of all." She whispered. She plucked a pink rose from her rosebush and slipped it in Santana's flowing dark hair. "There," she said with a smile. "My beautiful one. My most precious rose of all."

"I love you, abuelita." Santana snuggled to her grandmother's shoulders.

"I love you too, _mi amor_."


	3. Dancing In the Rain

**Hi, I'm back with a new chapter. :)**

Chapter Three: Dancing In the Rain

NOW

On her third attempt, she is greeted by a downpour when she reaches abuelita's house.

The rain is so hard that she can't even see anything outside her window. The next problem is that she doesn't have an umbrella in her car. She hesitates, wondering if she should come back again tomorrow.

She stares down at the bowl of corn soup she had brought with her. She had made the soup this morning, knowing that it is Abuelita Alma's favorite dish for breakfast. Santana had hoped that she and her abuelita could have breakfast together again, like they used to.

She can't come back tomorrow; she has to deliver the soup now. Her abuelita must be cold inside the house, what with this terrible downpour. This soup will definitely make her feel better.

Determined, Santana wraps the bowl in a plastic bag and carefully tucks it under her jacket before stepping out into the rain.

By the time she reaches the front porch, her hair and clothes are halfway soaked. She rings the bell. "Abuelita," she calls. "Abuelita, it's me, Santana."

No answer.

She tries knocking the door. "Abuelita, please open up," she pleads. "I bring something for you."

No answer.

"Abuelita…" her voice trails off, knowing that that damned door won't open for her.

Sadly, she places the bowl of corn soup in the doorstep. She places a note she had written earlier on top of it: _I made your favorite corn soup. When can we have breakfast together again? Love, Santana_.

Her chest feels heavy as she makes her way back to her car through the pouring rain.

* * *

THEN

"It's raining, abuelita, it's raining!"

Santana watched the rain from her grandmother's window. It had been sunny before, and the downpour came as a surprise. The temperature in the room dropped immediately; Santana shivered in her sleeveless summer dress.

"Oh my, it is," Abuelita Alma sighed. "It's five o'clock, Santana. I'll have to call your mother, tell her you'll be coming home late." She covered the little girl's body with a blanket, then disappeared into the kitchen to make the call.

When Abuelita Alma came back, Santana was nowhere to be found. She saw that the front door stood ajar. Worriedly, she ran outside, calling Santana's name.

She found her nine-year-old granddaughter outside on her garden, twirling and jumping and flapping her arms around like a ballerina. Her clothes and hair are soaked with rain, but a huge grin is on her face as she continued to dance under the summer rain.

"Santana!" Abuelita Alma cried from the front porch. "What are you doing, child? Come back here, you will catch a cold!"

"I'm dancing, abuelita," Santana said with a laugh. She twirled around, her dress splayed like a flower around her. "I did this with Daddy once. You should try it! Come and dance with me, abuelita!"

"I don't think that's a good idea, Santana," her grandmother said. "It is very cold."

"Not if you move," Santana said. Giggling, she ran towards her grandmother and pulled her hand. Abuelita Alma protested and tried to stay on the porch, but Santana was persistent. She dragged her grandmother to the garden and taught her how to dance.

"Just move your feet and arms around, abuelita," she instructed, performing one of the dance moves she learned on her ballet lessons. "Turn around like this."

Reluctantly, her abuelita followed her dancing. Abuelita Alma shivered and complained from the cold. But little Santana pulled at her abuelita's hands and ran around the garden. They turned around in circles, jumped over rocks, and hopped around the rosebushes. Soon, Abuelita Alma was laughing along with Santana. They swung each other around the soft grass, hands interlocked.

"Never let me go, abuela," Santana cries over the patter of the rain.

"Never, _mi amor_," Abuelita Alma promises. "Never. I got you, love. I got you."

When the rain finally stopped, both of them were disappointed.


	4. Birthday Wish

**Hello my lovelies, I'm back with a new chapter. This chapter is a personal favorite of mine, so far. Family is important to me and this chapter explains Santana's love for her family. I like exposing her like this, getting in touch with her vulnerable side. Santana is always best when she's exploring raw emotions. So… enough babbling. Happy reading! Oh, and I'd like to hear your feedback on how the story's to your liking so far, so please tell me what you think of the story up to this point! Enjoy!**

Chapter Four: Birthday Wish

NOW

It is Abuelita Alma's 67th birthday.

Out of habit, Santana has bought her strawberry cheesecake and lemon meringue pie from the Lima Bean. She had propped up a few candles on the cheesecake, and she has a lighter ready in her jeans pocket. Now all she needs is her abuelita.

She straightens herself in front of the door before ringing the bell.

At her surprise, the green-painted door swings open.

"Yes, yes, you're half an hour late –" Abuelita Alma stops as soon as she sees Santana. Clearly, her granddaughter was not the person she was expecting.

Santana wastes no time; she offers the cake to her abuelita. "Happy birthday, abuela," she says with a smile. "I got your favorite cheesecake and lemon meringue pie."

Abuelita Alma, as usual, purses her lips in discontent. "Thank you," she says curtly, "but I do not need cake from you."

"It's okay abuela, I got it just for you," Santana says, hope rising inside of her. This is the first interaction she's had with her abuelita for the last three days, and she hasn't slammed the door in front of her face in the first five seconds of seeing her. This is a significant improvement. "I bring a lighter, we can light the candles and –"

"I said," Abuelita Alma interrupts coldly, "I do not need cake from you." Her nostrils flare in anger. "Take them back."

Santana's heart crumples. "But, abuela –"

"I said take them back," Abuelita Alma orders stiffly. The bitterness in her voice tears Santana's heart away. "Take it back, and don't even bother coming back into my house."

A tear rolls down Santana's cheek. "When can you ever forgive me, abuelita?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper. "We used to celebrate your birthday every year. We would light the candles and you would make wishes before you blow them. I would be the first person you give your cake to. Have you forgotten all that?"

"I have not forgotten," Abuelita Alma assures her. "But a lot has _changed_ since my last birthday, hasn't it?"

"Abuela, all I want is to celebrate your birthday with you, like we used to," Santana pleads.

"And all I want is to be left alone." Abuelita Alma answers icily.

Santana takes a deep breath to stop more tears from falling off her eyes. "If you don't want to celebrate it with me, fine," she says. "But at least take the cake. For nineteen years I have never seen you let your birthday go by without your favorite cake. This year should be no different." She thrusts the cake forward. "This is for you, abuela. From me."

Abuelita Alma stands in furious silence for what seems to Santana like hours. She stands there, one hand on the door handle, watching Santana's tear-stained face wordlessly. Santana doesn't dare to look up to see her abuelita's expression; she is too scared to. She doesn't want to see that coldness in her eyes, and all the accusations, judgments, and disappointments she holds against her. Santana's knees begin to wobble as she continues to wait for her abuelita's response. If there is anyone who could make Santana Lopez shake in terror, it is Abuelita Alma.

"I said I do not need your cake."

Abuelita Alma slams the door in her face.

It takes Santana only five seconds to burst into hysterical tears. She falls to the floor, hands clenched around Abuelita Alma's doorway, tears splashing down onto the hard, cold floor. Her entire body trembles as she chokes on her tears. Her heart burns with so much pain she wonders if she could die out of a broken heart. She wills herself to move, to return to her car and drive back home to the comfort of her bed, but she can't. Her body refuses to obey her and she stays where she is, a messy heap on the floor, a broken creature with nothing but sorrow inside of her, begging for mercy, demanding salvation into the vast, empty air.

"Abuela, abuela, please," Santana begins to beg. She doesn't care about her dignity, or being subtle, or being patient. All she wants, all she needs, is for her abuelita to come out, hug her, and tell her that she loves her again. She misses her. She misses her grandmother so much it hurts. She _needs_ her. She needs her love; she feels lost and naked without it.

"Abuelita, abuelita, _caer bien_! Please, _te amo, _abuelita! I love you! Abuelita, please! Please! Please! I love you!"

The door remains closed.

The cake lies abandoned beside her.

* * *

THEN

It was Abuelita Alma's 57th birthday.

Nine-year-old Santana burst through the front door, the box of cake wobbling on her arms. Abuelita Alma laughed and rushed to give her granddaughter a hand.

"Happy birthday, abuelita!" Santana gave her a gap-toothed grin. "You're fifty eight today!"

"Yes, I am, _mi amor_," Abuelita Alma said, taking the cake from the little girl's unsteady hands. "Is this for me?"

Santana nodded. "Mama and me bought it from the Lima Bean," she explained. Her father and mother walked into the house then, giving Abuelita Alma hugs and birthday wishes. "Mama said you liked strawberry cheesecake and lemon meringue pie."

"I sure do, little one," Abuelita Alma answered. "Now, let's go to the kitchen and get the candles going, shall we?" She motioned to her son and daughter-in-law, then made her way to the kitchen with Santana hanging onto her hand.

The four of them sat on the kitchen table, the delicious-looking strawberry cheesecake laid out in front of them. Santana's mother lit the candles and Santana's eyes grew wide with wonder as she watched the dancing flames before her.

"Now everybody sing happy birthday for abuela," Mrs. Lopez ordered.

The tiny group huddled closer to one another as they sang happy birthday for their beloved Abuelita Alma, Santana's voice echoing the loudest in the modest brown-tiled kitchen.

The song ended, and Abuelita Alma leaned forward to blow her candles. Santana, though, immediately stopped her.

"No, not yet, abuela," she said, shaking her head adamantly. "Before you blow the candles, you must make a wish."

Abuelita Alma raised her eyebrows. "Make a wish, eh?" she repeated.

The nine-year-old girl nodded again enthusiastically. "You must close your eyes, then say your wish in your heart. Don't tell anyone your wish yet, okay? Don't tell anyone yet!"

"Okay, okay, my little boss," Abuelita Alma laughed as she touched Santana's cheek with hers. "So I should close my eyes? Then… say the wish in my heart? Like this? Should I put my hands together like I'm praying?" Abuelita Alma closed her eyes as her granddaughter instructed. "All right, little one. I'm wishing, I'm wishing."

There is a momentary silence as Abuelita Alma wished in front of her blazing birthday candles. Santana held her breath as she waited impatiently for her abuelita to reopen her eyes. A thousand questions raced through her eternally active mind: what was her abuela wishing for? Would she wish for a new toy, like Santana usually did when her birthday came? Would abuela like her cake? Who would she give the first piece to? Would their family do this again next year, and the next, and the next, like they had always done every year? Would abuela still like birthday parties and cheesecake when she was seventy? Eighty? Ninety-six? A hundred years old? Would she even remember, once she got older?

"There," Abuelita Alma's eyes fluttered open once more. She took Santana's hand and said, "Now let's blow the candles, shall we?"

They blew the candles together and, to her delight, Santana got the first piece of cake. They all ate strawberry cheesecake in the kitchen, making small talks, sharing recent events, and laughing at jokes Santana claimed to have learned from her classmates. The kitchen buzzed with warmth, love, and humble excitement. This is one of Santana's best memories from her childhood: celebrating Abuelita Alma's birthday in her kitchen, just the four of them, doing nothing but talk, eat cheesecake, and enjoy one another's company. Cherishing the moment, as if they all knew it wouldn't last long. The simplest idea of happiness for Santana has always been exactly this: family gatherings, filled with love and affection, with people she cared for wholeheartedly. Her noble-hearted parents, whom she loves dearly; and her knight in shining armor, her lighthouse, her fortress, her abuelita. As long as she had them around, she knew that the world would be all right, come what may. They were her sense of security, her idea of love, her example of perfection and ideality. Abuelita Alma, especially, was her personal guardian angel. Those are the words that pop into Santana's mind whenever she remembers her abuelita: her guardian angel. No matter what she's done or said, Abuelita Alma would always be her angel.

Santana can't help but smile whenever this piece of memory rewinds itself in her brain. She wishes she could jump back into that time, ten years ago, in her abuelita's kitchen, at her 58th birthday.

She helped abuelita with the dishes afterwards. They scraped the cake crumbs into the dustbin and placed the dishes into the dishwasher. As Santana wiped her father's plate free of strawberry cream, she turned to her abuelita's tiny figure, cocked her head to the side, and asked,

"Abuelita, what did you wish for?"

Abuelita Alma looked up from the plate she was rinsing. "I thought I shouldn't tell anyone about my wish?" She asked with a raised eyebrow.

Santana grinned. "I change my mind. You can tell me." she exclaimed.

Abuelita Alma shook her head, suppressing a smile. "Well, if you must know…" She put her plate down and stared at her granddaughter straight in the eye. "My one and only wish is for our family to be healthy and happy."

Santana's eyes grew wide, like they usually did when she was happy, afraid, or surprised. "Just that?"

"Just that."

"No new clothes? No new books for abuela?"

"No, _mi amor, _no new clothes or books for abuela," Abuelita Alma answered. She took the young girl's hands in hers and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Abuela doesn't need new clothes or books. All abuela needs is her family." She placed a hand on Santana's chubby cheeks. "As long as I have your Papa, your Mama, your Uncle and Auntie, and _you_," – she poked Santana in the belly, who giggled at her touch – "abuela is the happiest person in the world." She pinched the girl's cheeks. "Especially you, _mi amor_. Abuela loves you very much, and abuela never wants to lose you. As long as you're happy and healthy, then I am also happy."

Santana wrapped her arms around Abuelita Alma's frail-looking neck. "I love you very much too, abuela," she said, eyes ablaze with emotions. "I never want to lose you too. As long as abuela's happy and healthy, Santana also happy."

Abuelita Alma's eyes were wet with tears as she swallowed Santana into a tight hug.


	5. Bicycle Ride

**Hi my lovely readers, I am sorry for the no update for a while. I don't think I'll be able to update for the next couple of weeks too, so to make up for it, this chapter's a bit lengthy. I hope you won't get confused with this chapter. I'm not very good at writing out feelings because I tend to drabble endlessly. Anyway, here you go.**

**(PS: Who is happy that Glee, Chord Overstreet, Blake Jenner, and Lea Michele won at the Teen Choice Awards? Way to go, Gleeks!)**

Chapter Five: Bicycle Ride

NOW

It is a sunny Friday morning. Out of knowledge that her abuelita will hide at the sight of her car, Santana decided to walk to Abuelita Alma's house today. The hike uphill takes less than twenty minutes, but sweat already surrounds her face as she reaches the front gates of the house.

She looks as disheveled as she feels. Her dark hair falls in untidy curls around her shoulders; her face is pale with no make-up; and her eyes, her eyes are red and puffy from crying all night long. She had cried herself to sleep last night, and woke up with swollen eyes. She couldn't bring herself to eat breakfast, and she was too distraught to put on even lip gloss, left alone make-up.

Her feet are slightly sore from the walk, but she ignores the pain and marches straight up onto Abuelita Alma's front porch. Before her mind persuades her to do otherwise, she rings the bell.

No answer, as usual.

"Abuelita," she calls, rapping the door fervently. She is determined to at least look at her abuelita in the eye today. "Abuelita, open up. It's me. Are you in there?"

Impatient, she steps off the porch and peeks in through a gap in one of the curtained windows. Her abuelita is nowhere to be seen, and the house seems to be deserted. Is she really not in the house today?

_Well, that's just my luck, _Santana thinks, annoyed. _Just when I thought our situation improved yesterday, I can't see her at all today._

She ponders for a moment where her abuelita might have gone. She isn't the type who goes around much. She usually goes grocery shopping in the morning, bringing in her precious bicycle. Occasionally she would go to Chinatown or the nearest fishmonger to buy supplies for dinner. Once or twice a month she heads to the public library to borrow a book or two. Other than that, Abuelita Alma stays contentedly indoors, absorbed in her cooking or knitting. When she was younger, abuelita sometimes visited Santana's family, living almost half an hour away. But as she grew older, Santana would visit her abuelita at her home instead. She would spend hours in Abuelita Alma's house; she would play around in her garden, help her cook, learn how to sew, and practice her ballet in the living room.

Those were happier days.

Santana sighed at the memories, wishing the heartache would go away as easily as swatting a fly off your hand. She accepts the fact that she will not see her abuelita today, and that she should just walk back home and eat and sleep again. In fact, she probably should not come back to abuelita's house again. What's the point? She's made it pretty clear that she doesn't want to see and talk to Santana. She's even pushed away a family tradition they had carried on for seventeen years out of spite for her granddaughter. Why so persistent?

She has just walked out of the front gates when she spots a familiar figure approaching her.

Abuelita Alma, riding her precious and shiny red bicycle. She climbs down and pushes the bike as she makes her way uphill. The wicker basket perched in front of the bike holds several bags of groceries. She has a tired but satisfied look on her face as she continues her hike towards her house.

Santana waits patiently on the sidewalk. Her heart is filled with so many emotions as she watches her aged grandmother carry her prized bicycle up the road. She is so small, so tiny, but so strong. All her life, Santana has looked up to her dearest abuela as the strongest person she has ever known. She is her role model, her inspiration, the person she loves most. She is the person she admires. To have her abuelita reject her is the saddest and most tragic thing that has happened in her nineteen years of life. She knows that if her abuelita doesn't forgive her soon, she will crumble in misery. She already had a taste of what her abuelita's rejection could do to her yesterday; the pain hasn't really gone. She's not sure if she can suffer through another spiteful argument with abuelita, but she knows that giving up is not an option.

Abuelita Alma only spots Santana when she is already only a few paces away from her front gate. The aged woman's bright expression disappears almost instantaneously, the rosiness in her cheeks giving way to pale, wrinkled skin. Her lips curl into a scowl, and her eyes, alive and rejuvenated only seconds ago, have retracted into a pit of coldness and anger.

"Abuelita," Santana greets her with a sincere smile, trying to ignore the signs of displeasure clearly drawn across her abuelita's face.

"I thought," Abuelita Alma says, "I told you to not to bother coming into my house anymore."

"I've always loved visiting you, abuela," Santana says, eyeing the house beside her. "Your house has always been the one place where I feel… safe. Infinite. Like I could be anything I wanted to."

Abuelita Alma narrows her eyes. "Is that so?" she asks. "So is it my house, then, that gave birth to that disease corrupting your mind, soul, and _heart_?"

Her words sting Santana's heart. "It is not a _disease_, abuelita," she says. "It is… it is simply who I am. What I've been born with."

Abuelita Alma takes a deep breath and shakes her head in dismay. "How dare you tell me that it is something you were born with. As if it wasn't a choice; as if there was nothing you could do about it, when in truth there are _plenty_ of things you could have done to stop it from ruining you. From changing you, from turning you into someone I have never known –"

"Abuelita, this is who I am," Santana says defensively. "All your life you have taught me that I should be proud of myself. That I should never care for what other people think of me, that as long as I stay true to myself and listen to my heart, I'll be all right. I'm just trying to follow everything you have ever taught me, abuela. Don't you remember? Don't you remember at all what you said to me?"

"Don't you shift this blame to me –"

"I'm not _blaming_ you, abuela," Santana says, chest heavy with unspoken words, unfinished businesses she has been dying to settle with her grandmother. "I'm not blaming you at all. I just… I just want you to remember everything you have ever told me. I want you to remember all those times you have told me to be proud of myself, to stand up for what I think is right, to always listen to my heart…" Santana places a hand over her chest. "Abuelita, this is exactly what I am doing right now. I have been listening to my heart."

Abuelita Alma doesn't answer her. She keeps her eyes down, staring at the concrete pavement with tremendous intensity. Santana decides to take advantage of this situation by pouring out everything she has kept locked inside of her for months.

"Abuelita, you have been the one true inspiration of my life," she begins, eyes starting to water with tears. "Ever since I can remember, you are the rock of my life. You are my best friend, my teacher, my angel. You are someone I look up to. Someone I love with all I have. You are the only person I can trust and you know that."

She takes a deep breath before continuing.

"Remember that time, when I was ten years old, and I was bullied at school? Do you remember how I told you that I hated myself? But you told me, abuela, you told me that hating myself is the worst mistake I could ever make in my life. You taught me, for the first time, how important it is to love myself. You taught me how to appreciate myself, and the importance of staying true to who I am. I have hold those things you taught me, that morning, nine years ago, for the rest of my life. Abuela, your words are the ones I hold dearest in my heart.

"You said that there are plenty of things I could have done to stop it from ruining me. But you see, abuela, I _did_ try a lot of things. I tried finding boyfriends, I tried flipping through one of those flimsy chick magazines just to look at pictures of male celebrities. I even tried wearing frilly dresses just to make myself feel more like a girl, as if that could set me straight. But abuela, every night, every damn night, I went to sleep feeling empty. Every morning, when I woke up, I felt like I didn't know myself. I went through the day in meaningless motion. When I looked into the mirror, I saw a stranger looking back at me. All this, abuela, because I knew that I wasn't being myself. I was trying to hide the real me, and it only made me miserable. It only turned me into a horrible person."

Abuelita Alma is still stunned into silence. Santana's cheeks are stained with tears now. These are years-old revelations, secret confessions she has stored up inside of her, without knowing who to reveal them to. But in the end, she has always known that it would come to her abuelita when she needs someone to trust.

"I was lost, abuela. I didn't know who I was. I didn't even know who I wanted to be anymore. I didn't know where to go, what to do. But, abuela," she wipes a tear off her cheek. "Ever since I admitted… who I am, to myself, I felt like a heavy burden had lifted off of my shoulders. I had something to believe in again. I could look into the mirror and be proud in seeing the reflection smiling back at me. I feel free, abuela. I feel infinite, and I feel happy, weightless, because I don't have to pretend to be someone I'm not anymore. I have let myself go."

Santana takes a few seconds to stifle her sobs.

"Who I am right now might not be the best I can be, but at least I am happy. If I have to go back into the closet and fake it all over again, I can't. I just can't. It hurts too much, not being able to love yourself for who you really are. I love myself now, and for this moment, it is enough."

Santana puts her hand on one of Abuelita Alma's bike handles.

"Abuelita," she says softly. "I am still the same person I have always been. I think that I am now even better, because I can finally be honest of who I really am. But abuelita," she leans closer to her. "One thing that I know has never and will not change is my love for you. I still love you, abuelita. You are still my hero. Still my knight in shining armor. Still my queen."

She braves herself to look at her abuelita straight in the eye.

"They say that to love someone means to accept someone for all of them, whether good or bad," Santana continues. "I love you, abuelita, and all that comes with the expression. I will still love you, no matter what you say or do. I still love you, although you push me away and reject me. I don't care what you do to me, abuela. I will never wish anything bad for you, no matter how angry or hurt I might be. When you love someone, you just want the best for them, and accept them wholeheartedly." She bites her lip. "You used to say that you loved me. If you really do, abuelita… if you really do, can't you accept me for who I really am? Can't you take me in, with everything that comes with me?" A tear splashes down her face onto the pavement. "Can't you forgive me?"

Abuelita Alma has said not one word throughout Santana's tearful explanation. She is simply rooted to the spot, holding her bicycle, face turned into an uptight scowl. Santana's heart races wildly as she waited for her abuelita to say something. Anything. This silence reminds her of her painful confession to Abuelita Alma at her house, almost two years ago. Has it really been that long? She has survived without her grandmother's love for that long?

"If you are done," Abuelita Alma finally speaks, "I would like to get inside my house."

Santana's heart drops; clearly this is not the answer she has been expecting. But there is really nothing she can do, is there? At least today she's lucky enough that Abuelita Alma gave her a chance to talk to her. Today is definitely an improvement. But Santana can't say that she's quite pleased with the results of today's attempt at reconciliation.

She watches in forlorn silence as her abuelita enters her front garden, parks the bicycle next to the porch, and slams the green-painted door for what must be the hundredth time.

* * *

THEN

In the hottest September afternoon, Abuelita Alma and ten-year-old Santana walked home from the fishmonger's, dragging abuelita's bicycle along with them. They had climbed down the bicycle halfway to the house and decided to continue the rest of the journey on foot.

They had just finished laughing about the fishmonger's funny-looking beard, and Santana was still giggling to herself. After a moment of silence, though, Santana started to become uneasy. There was something she wanted to tell to her abuelita, but she was afraid that abuelita would be angry at her. She twiddled with her fingers, thinking of the right words to say in her head.

Abuelita Alma, though, instantly noticed Santana's strange behavior.

"Now, girl, why are you fidgeting like that?" Abuelita Alma asked. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Santana looked up at her grandmother in alarm. How could she knew? Her ten-year-old mind wondered. Instantly, though, she dropped her gaze again and returned to twisting her fingers around one another. "It's nothing…" she murmured.

"Santana, if you're going to lie to me, I'm going to smack you with this basket," Abuelita Alma said, pointing at the wicker basket perched on the front of the bicycle. "Now talk to me, _cariño_. You know that you can trust me with anything, right?"

Santana nodded. Abuelita Alma was right. She knew that she could trust her with anything. She just didn't want her abuela to be mad at her. She really didn't. She rarely got scolded by her abuelita, but when she did, she was usually terrified. Abuelita Alma had a terrible wrath.

"Is it something at school?" Abuelita Alma started to ask.

Santana nodded.

"Trouble with friends?"

Santana glanced up at her grandmother. "Abuela, are you psychic?"

Abuelita Alma let out a hearty laugh. "I wish, child. I just make very lucky guesses." She smiled. "Now, what is it that's troubling you at school?"

Santana avoided Abuelita Alma's eyes as she spoke. "Some of my friends are mean to me, abuela," she finally confessed. "They hide my books and pencils and they push me around sometimes. Once they dump my lunch to the ground and I cried because I was so hungry. Then they drew mean words on my desk. They are so mean and I am scared of them."

"Now why would they bully a nice girl like you?" Abuelita Alma asked with a frown.

"Because they say that they don't like me and that I am annoying and they don't like the way I look," Santana said miserably. "They call me the Mexican freak and they think I'm a bad person. They make fun of my hair and they call me ugly."

"You're not even Mexican," Abuelita Alma murmured to herself. "Now why were you so afraid to tell me this, _mi amor_?"

Santana took a deep breath. "Because last week I hit one of them and she got a chipped tooth," she said. "The principal called Papa and Mama and they were angry at me. I was scared that you will be mad at me too, abuela." Her eyes were watery as a new thought struck her. "Am I a bad person, abuela?"

Abuelita Alma screeched the bicycle to a halt. She dropped it to the pavement and gripped both of Santana's shoulders. She crouched so she would be on eye-level with the ten-year-old girl.

"Now you listen to me, Santana Lopez," she said, and Santana stared at her, wide-eyed, sure that she would be scolded. "You say those girls are horrible to you because they don't like the way you are. Well, I say screw them."

Santana's eyes grew bigger. "Mama said _screw _can be a bad word –"

"Well, screw that, too," Abuelita Alma cut her off. "Let me tell you something very important, Santana. Something you must remember all your life. There is nothing wrong with being who you are. So you are Latina, so you have black hair and darker skin than those girls at your school. So you can speak Spanish as well as you speak English. So what? You're not different from them. You're just as smart, as pretty, as brave and kind."

"But they said –"

"I know what they said, Santana," Abuelita Alma said, nostrils flaring in anger. "But you must remember something, _pequeño_. You must _always_ be yourself. Don't you ever try to be someone else. You have to be proud of who you are, and stick with it. You must never let others make you feel bad about being yourself. You must _love_ yourself, Santana. Listen to your heart. Listen to your heart, and always be proud of who you are inside." She tucked a strand of Santana's dark hair behind her ear. "And you are _not_ a bad person, _cariño_. You are a kind soul, my sweet _ángel_. Don't you ever dare to think otherwise. You understand?"

Santana nodded, gratefulness washing over her. Abuelita was not angry at her! She felt instantaneously relieved. Everything her abuelita just told her warmed the deepest corners of her heart. Be true to yourself. Love yourself. Listen to your heart. Those are words that she will continue to carry within her for the rest of her life.

"Good. Now let's get home. I'm sweating like a pig." Abuelita Alma picked up her bike and pushed it again as if nothing ever happened. Santana followed silently behind, mulling over the things her beloved abuela just told her.

"Oh, and Santana?" Santana looked up to find the corners of her abuelita's mouth twitching. "Nice job on chipping the tooth off that bully. That's what I'm talking about. No one messes with a Lopez."

Santana was stunned for a few seconds before letting out an amused smile.

**So… what do you guys think? From the few minutes we saw Abuelita Alma she seemed like a spunky woman. I also read from Glee wiki that she might be where Santana got her snarky attitude from, so I thought I'd portray some of it in here. I especially loved when she said "Santana, are you pregnant? Because I'm going to whack you with this chair." :D And it's interesting to think that maybe Santana is such a bully because she was bullied once but decided to fight back. She just goes a little over the top sometimes and as a result becomes snarky and bitchy. But hey, that's just how I love Santana.**

**I'll try to update soon, but probably not within the next two weeks. Will be busy traveling for college! Thanks for liking this story, though. You guys are the best. ;)**


	6. Love Letters

**Hi, I'm back with a new chapter! Here you go, this is another lengthy one. I'm sorry for that.**

Chapter Six: Love Letters

NOW

This is the course of Santana's life for the next four days.

She writes the first one on Saturday, June 22nd, 2013, at six forty five p.m.

_Dear abuela,_

_I figure that there is nothing I can change talking to you, so I decided to write you a letter. Just like that time when I was twelve, you remember, abuela? Except now I think my handwriting is so much better, and my spelling is not so bad. Remember those scraggly "i"s and "a"s I used to write on that piece of paper with little pink hearts all over it? I couldn't find that kind of paper anymore, but I guess this one will do – red hearts, with gray bears around them. A bit childish, I guess, but I think it's cute. Don't you, abuela?_

_Abuela, today Mama and I did some baking. She insisted – you know how stubborn she can be when she wants something done. To think that she would try _baking_! You would have to guess how much mess we made in the kitchen. I got you some blueberry muffins with this letter. They're tastily acceptable, but watch out, I might have dropped a nail or two inside the dough!_

_We did some shopping too, which was fun. Mama said I needed a new trench coat when really, I've had so many I'm stuffing them inside my friends' closets in my apartment in New York. I'll tell you about my roommates sometime, abuela. They're like happy-go-lucky, Broadway-holic conjoined twins, but they're great people. I love them, even though I swear they make my ears burst with blood sometimes._

_What about you, abuela? What did you do today? I miss you. Wish you were there with Mama and I, shopping together. You know I always love hearing your snarky opinions about how everything is so ugly. Tell me when we can go shopping together again. Mama would love that too. Please write me back._

_All my love,_

_Santana_

She writes the second one on Sunday, June 23rd, 2013, at five twenty p.m.

_Dear abuela,_

_How was the blueberry muffin? I hope they were sweet enough for you. Abuela, today Mama and I did nothing but being lazy all day. We woke up at eleven and watched TV all day long. Daddy went to the tire shop so we were pretty much sloths the entire day. Remember when you used to smack us in the butts whenever we woke up past ten a.m.? You used to call me "the lazy little donkey" and tell me to straighten myself out. Can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss your spanking._

_We're going to have dinner at Breadstix tonight, though. But dinner at Breadstix is never fun without you around, right, abuela? Remember when you banged your coffee cup on the table because you said it tasted like mud water? Or when you and I threw spitballs at this old lady once. Boy, was I a delinquent. But I learned from the best._

_Write me back soon. I love you._

_Love, _

_Santana_

She writes the third one on Monday, June 24th, 2013, at six fifty five p.m.

_Dear abuela,_

_It was raining again today and I remember one more time of when we danced in the rain. I miss you, abuela. Please write back to me. Please. I go home in a few days, and won't you at least write me back?_

_Love,_

_Santana_

She writes the fourth one on Tuesday, June 25th, 2013, at eight forty five p.m. This is her last letter.

_Dear abuela,_

_This is going to be my last letter. Apparently, you're not going to write me back for now. I still miss you, abuela. I think about you every day. Do you think of me every day? I love you, abuelita._

_Love,_

_Santana_

* * *

THEN

The first time Santana thought she was in love, she was twelve years old.

It was her classmate, Maya Braeson. She was a month younger than Santana, with shiny brown hair and bright, green eyes. Santana always thought Maya was pretty, and she had the neatest, best handwriting in class. She could read at a high school level, she could answer every question their History and Science teacher asked, and she got an A+ on their Math test. Maya was also one of the few girls who never called Santana names or singled her out for being a Latina. Maya was always kind and polite to her, and this made Santana adore her even more. Everything Maya did seemed wonderful in Santana's eyes. She followed her everywhere, from the classroom to the library to the parking lot. To her, Maya was perfect. When Maya held her hand once on the swings, she found herself holding her breath. Once she woke up after dreaming about kissing Maya on the lips.

There was only one problem: Maya had a crush on Tommy. Tommy, that dirty, good-for-nothing blond boy who attracted girls in their class because of his drawing talents. Santana hated him. Whenever Tommy was around, Maya would turn away from her and gave him her full attention. Santana was kicked to the sideline whenever Tommy appeared. To Santana, Tommy was an ugly distraction.

She was ashamed; she couldn't simply say it out loud that she was "in love" with Maya. Sure, she could say that they were best friends, and that she liked Maya, but how could she make her understand about how she really felt about her? Maya liked Tommy; she would probably stay a good deal away from Santana if she ever found out about her little secret. She would think Santana was some sort of freak.

So, she did something else to catch Maya's attention: she pretended to have a crush on Tommy too.

Santana would sit next to Tommy in classes and pass him tiny, flirty notes. She would come up to his locker and twirl her hair as they talked. She cheered for him on his soccer practices, and baked him chocolate chip cookies once.

This drew Maya over the edge; she was definitely jealous to see Santana attach herself to Tommy. But, to Santana, it felt like Maya was giving her all her attention now. Maya would come up to her and ask her about Tommy. She would sit closer to her in classes, just to keep an eye on Santana and Tommy. For a while, Santana was triumphantly happy with her progress. She happily thought her plan had worked.

Until Maya stopped talking to her.

Maya was furious when Santana kissed Tommy on the cheek once on P.E. Tommy blushed, and Santana felt like gagging, but it was Maya who rushed out of the gym and slammed the door behind her. After that, Maya would not even look at her. She was so angry at Santana that it scared the Latina girl to death. She wanted to apologize, but Maya wouldn't even give her the chance.

What was even worse, it turned out that Tommy didn't like her, either. After the kiss, he somehow decided that he liked Maya better than Santana. So he started to walk Maya to her classes; he started texting her and asking her to go out with friends during weekends. When they had to choose partners for Biology, Tommy walked over to Maya's desk without a second thought. They became closer, and Santana became even more jealous.

It was a Tuesday. Santana was on the bleachers, gloomily watching Maya and Tommy play soccer together out in the field. Maya had joined the cheerleading squad that fall, and Tommy was in the soccer club. They had practices together, and now they were both on a break. Tommy had his hand on Maya's arm as they fought for the ball, both of them laughing heartily. Santana thought she saw Maya's cheeks blush.

"Boy troubles, eh?"

Santana looked up to find her abuelita standing beside her.

"What are you doing here?" Santana asked, surprised to see her grandmother.

"I come to pick you up," Abuelita Alma told her. "Your Mama is having rather a handful right now, so I promised her I would bring you home." She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "So, which one is the boy? Is he the one trying to wrestle a ball from that brown-haired girl?"

_Actually, it's the brown-haired girl_, Santana thought glumly to herself. Instead, she just nodded.

"Is that girl bothering you?"

Santana nodded again.

"It's your ego getting in the way, isn't it, Santana? You can't talk to that boy or you won't?"

Santana raised her eyebrows at her grandmother. "I can't," she said honestly. "If that makes any difference."

"Are they together?"

Santana began to shake her head again, but then stopped. "Not yet," she muttered.

"Well, in that case, write him a love letter."

Santana stared at her abuelita, blinking in confusion. "What?"

"You said you can't talk to him? Then write him a love letter. Tell him how you really feel about him." Abuelita Alma smiled. "When he finds out it's you, I'm sure he won't say no to you."

Santana pondered over this idea for a long moment. A love letter. How could she not think of this before? If she wrote a letter, she could say whatever she wanted about Maya without telling her who she really was. Maya would know how Santana felt, but she wouldn't have to know it was her. It was brilliant!

That night, once she had closed her bedroom door, she picked up a piece of paper and started writing Maya her love letter. She was careful to change her handwriting style so that Maya wouldn't find out it was her. She even tried making her handwriting messy so Maya would think it was from a boy.

Santana filled the pages with words of admiration and affection that she had kept to herself for what felt like forever. She poured out everything inside her heart into that piece of paper. She was honest, exposed, raw. She had nothing to hide, and she was wild and free.

The next day, a few minutes before school ended, she slipped the lengthy love letter into Maya's locker. She was still grinning from ear to ear as she tiptoed away from the hallway and slid back into her desk.

That afternoon, she ran over to Abuelita Alma's house, face flushed with excitement. She dropped her bag on the couch and jumped to abuelita's arms so fast the older woman staggered for a moment before regaining her balance.

"_Calmar, mi pequeño_! What is going on? Is a bull chasing after you?"

"I did it, abuelita! I did it!" Santana said breathlessly. "I sent my love letter!"

Abuelita Alma laughed as she put her granddaughter down. "Now, that's the spirit!" she said. "I'm sure he will be all melting inside right now."

"Abuelita, I have something for you too," Santana said, pulling a small white envelope from her jeans' pocket. "The love letter was your idea, and I wanted to thank you for it. So, I wrote you one too."

Abuelita Alma raised her eyebrows. "A love letter?"

Santana nodded eagerly. "Open it," she urged her.

Abuelita Alma took the envelope and pulled out the piece of paper folded neatly inside. The letter was scribbled in bright, purple ink, with hearts on top of the "i"s.

"_Dear abuela,_" Abuelita Alma read the letter aloud, much to Santana's delight. "_I wrote this letter to tell you that you are the most special person in my life. You are strong, brave, kind, and everything that is good. You are my idol, my inspiration, and my hero. Thank you for loving me, abuela. I will always love you. Hugs and kisses, Santana._"

Abuelita Alma refolded the letter and gave her granddaughter a long, big hug.

"_Gracias, mi ángel_. I love you too."

"I will write you a love letter every week, abuelita," Santana promised. "You'll get more from me."

"I'll be waiting for that."

Santana slept with a smile that night.

The next day, whenshe walked into school, she was greeted with the sight of Maya and Tommy kissing in front of his locker.

Maya thought the love letter was from Tommy.

**I only have three to four chapters left, I think. It could be five, but it is coming to an end shortly. So… I hope you'll stick around until the story ends! Please review, favorite, follow, share, etc. Share your opinions with me, I love to hear them! ;) Thanks everyone!**


	7. A Phone Call

Chapter Seven: A Phone Call

NOW

Santana tries to be as silent as possible as she tiptoes onto Abuelita Alma's front porch.

She peeks through the side window, and is relieved when she finds the curtain blocking her entire view. She doesn't want to face her grandmother today; not really. She's just here for one reason, and one reason only.

She takes the long white envelope out of her jacket pocket, crouches down, and places it on Abuelita Alma's doorstep. Next she takes out a small rock from her other pocket, and places it on top of the envelope. After making sure that she has positioned the envelope correctly, she backs away and leaves her abuelita's territory as silently as she had come.

As she starts walking home, she fishes her phone out of her jeans pocket and presses Abuelita Alma's number.

It seems silly, how her heart is beating wildly as she listens to the drone of the phone's dial tone. She waits – three, five, seven rings. No answer. Looks like she's in luck today; she wasn't planning on confronting Abuelita Alma directly, and now she doesn't really have to.

"_Hello, this is Alma Lopez. Please leave a message after the beep and I'll get back to you immediately. Gracias!_"

The unmistakable beeping sound. A taunting silence. Santana takes a deep breath and begins to talk.

"Hi, abuela, it's me, Santana. I just wanted to tell you that I go back to New York tomorrow. I have something coming up… a ballet performance, actually. My debut show with the other NYADA extension class. It's this Sunday. I have left tickets for a plane to New York and the show on your doorstep. If, by some miracle, you plan on coming to my show. I hope the time is good for you… so… yeah. Give me a call if you're ever planning to come. Bye abuela, I love you."

She hangs up as quickly as possible, because she can't stop the tears from coming anymore.

* * *

THEN

Santana chewed on her nails and fidgeted in her seat as she watched her father pace around the living room, his phone pressed to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mama?" Mr. Lopez said.

"Juan, darling, what is it?" Santana could hear Abuelita Alma's voice from the other end.

Juan Lopez ran a hand along his hair as he tried to control his frustration. His face had turned red and he was breathing heavily. _Uh-oh, _Santana thought, chewing on more of her mud-caked nails.

"Maribel and I have to attend a dentist seminar this afternoon," he said, a tint of annoyance audible in his gruff voice. "But I need someone to look after Santana –"

"Why don't you take the girl with you?" Abuelita Alma questioned. "You take her everywhere."

"Yes, except that as in today, she is _grounded_!" Mr. Lopez glared at Santana as he announced the last word.

"What did she do?" Abuelita Alma asked, already too familiar with the antics of her eldest granddaughter.

"She chased the neighbor's cat around!" Mr. Lopez nearly exploded. "She put on that dirty coveralls of hers and jumped around chasing the neighbor's ugly cat! She was jumping over fences, bushes, _the roof_! Mama, she was _on the roof_! She nearly fell off! Then she knocked over an old man with a cane in the street, and she was rolling in mud when I finally caught up with her!"

"The cat was eating that poor bird! It's cruel!" Santana yelled in defense.

"I don't care if the cat ate a dinosaur, that's no way for a lady to behave!" Mr. Lopez roared. Santana shrank back into her seat, twisting her mouth in distaste.

"Mama, this girl needs some spanking," Mr. Lopez returned to his phone call. "She's been running around ever since I can remember! She would ride her bike and fall and hurt her knees, she would dig for worms, she would burp when she eats in restaurants… she wears an overturned cap, boots, overalls… Mama, my goodness, she's a _girl_, not a _farm boy_!"

"I like wearing caps and boots," Santana muttered grumpily.

"Watch it, young lady!" Mr. Lopez threatened. "If I can still call you that!"

Standing behind Santana, Maribel Lopez let out a sigh. "Let it go, Juan, will you? Santana can dress however she likes. She's just seven, it's called 'being a kid.'" She said.

"It's called being delinquent," Mr. Lopez murmured angrily. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing his conversation with his mother. "So, Mama… can you come here? Babysit her for an hour or two?"

Abuelita Alma was silent for a moment.

"Mama?" Mr. Lopez called, checking to see if he had lost the call. "Mama? You there?"

"I'll be right there, Juan," Abuelita Alma answered brightly. "In the meantime, I think I have a solution to your problems."

Mr. Lopez frowned. "What do you mean?" he began to ask, but she had already hung up.

When Abuelita Alma showed up on their doorstep twenty minutes later, she had a sunny smile on her face, and a neatly folded pamphlet in her hand.

She brandished the pamphlet into the air, shoving it onto the Lopez's confused faces. "Ballet!" she announced proudly. "There's a class ten minutes away from here, and they're accepting new students. You will start your first lesson this Tuesday, Santana."

Santana and her parents stared at both the pamphlet and their abuelita with bewilderment. Santana wanted to laugh; her? Ballet? Come on… she could barely keep herself still, now abuelita wanted to enroll her in _ballet_ classes? Where she would have to be graceful, elegant, _feminine_? Yeah, right. Santana was really looking forward to embarrassing herself in public.

"Don't you wrinkle your nose at my idea, Santana!" Abuelita Alma snapped. "And you, Juan, don't look at me like that! You asked me for help, and this is what I come up with. Maribel, any questions?" She challenged the Lopez family to question her solution. When no one said anything, she grinned triumphantly. "Good. You begin at Tuesday, don't forget, Santana. Five p.m.!"

Santana spent the remaining of the day staring at the pamphlet Abuelita Alma got her. She _knew_, she just knew, that she would hate this new class of hers. She would have to wear a tutu; she'd have to tie her hair into a bun and wear shoes that would hurt her toes. She would be itchy, and she would have to work extra hard to make sure she didn't look like a dancing elephant among the other students.

Little did she know that she would grow to love the one thing she thought she would hate. That ballet and dancing would be her passion, her way to live. The one thing she returns to whenever she finds herself lost.

"_My abuela put me in them, when I was little, because I was such a tomboy and it really pissed my Dad off._"

Her words to Isabelle Wright a few months ago suddenly rings inside her head as she continues her journey back home, along with the memory of that one fateful phone call when she was seven years old. She smiles to herself, wondering how she could be such a rascal when she was small. _I remember very funny things in my life, _she tells herself.

She wonders if Abuelita Alma remembered it was her who introduced Santana into the world of ballet.

Probably not.

**What do you guys think? Will Abuelita Alma come to her ballet show or not?**


	8. At the Ballet

Chapter Eight: At the Ballet

NOW

Santana didn't even realize she was gripping her phone so tightly until Rachel places a hand on her arm. They are backstage at the NYADA main auditorium, and it's ten minutes until the show. Santana has been all-glammed up: her hair has been braided neatly, her face dotted with make-up, her body covered in a stunning light purple ballet outfit. On her feet are a pair of pink ballet shoes. Santana looks in the mirror and finds herself staring at a foreign princess, a stranger from a beautiful dream. _This isn't me_, she tells herself frantically. _This isn't me…_

"Santana, relax," the brunette says. "You're going to be amazing, trust me. I know how good you are, and you look beautiful, and –"

"It's not _that_, Berry," Santana snaps at the shorter girl. "I'm not nervous about the show. I _know_ I'm going to be amazing."

"Well… then what are you so nervous about?" Rachel inquires curiously. It's not usual for her to see her Latina friend like this; she's not one to get the jitters about anything. She's practically the most fearless person Rachel has ever known.

Santana looks down at her blank phone with a hollow expression. "It's my abuelita," she says softly. "I don't know if she's coming or not. Her plane should have landed two hours ago, but I haven't heard anything from her…"

Suddenly, at Santana's surprise, Rachel wraps her arms around her and gives the dark-haired girl a tight hug.

"I'm sorry about your abuelita," Rachel says in her ear. "I'm sure that she will come. She loves you, and she's proud of you. She won't miss your debut for the world. But," the girl pulls back so she can stare at Santana in the eye. "_If_ she doesn't come, you're still going to be amazing." She clasps Santana's hands in hers. "You're the most talented performer I've ever known, Santana. Well, second most talented, after me, obviously, but… you're going to be all right."

Santana takes in the brown-haired girl's features with curiosity. Her dark brown eyes, her chestnut-colored hair, her nose that, Santana thinks, is still too big for her face, her petite body… Rachel and she are two worlds apart, and even though she hates the Barbra Streisand-wannabe with all her guts, she has to admit that Rachel has made into her list of people she doesn't want to live without.

A thin, grateful smile appears on Santana's lips. "Thank you, Rachel," she says quietly. She pulls her hands away then, and walks off towards the exit of the stage. "Now piss off, I don't want to catch your ugly 101 disease."

Rachel lets out a chuckle. "Kurt, Adam and I will be watching on the fifth row." She informs her. "Break a leg! Theoretically, not literally. Keep that in mind."

* * *

The first thing she notices are the lights: they are too bright. She narrows her eyes, blinking away spots. The piercing heat from the blaring lights comes next, which is quickly overthrown by the cool whisper of the air conditioners in the auditorium on her skin. The floor smells faintly of pine, and she can see a blurred reflection of herself on the dark linoleum floor.

The air is buzzing with ecstasy; she can feel the anticipation suspended in midair all around her. She can barely make out faces in the sea of crowd: a couple of her friends from NYADA, a blond-haired Miss Cassandra July, a tan-skinned Brody Weston, serious-faced Madam Tibido… and the hippie twins, of course. Rachel and Kurt, accompanied by a grinning Adam, sitting next to and holding hands with Kurt. Kurt, Santana notices, looks like a rabbit about to be shot to death. _Why does he have to look so scared? _Santana frowns to herself. _He's not the one being put to the test here._

The music booms out of the speakers then, and out of practice, Santana switches her sulky expression to a happy one. She puts on a fake smile, and keeps it there as she begins her routine.

Two of her NYADA extension classmates are on the stage with her; Lulu, a twenty-something Filipino girl with a green outfit, and Brenda, a Chinese girl a year younger than Santana, in a blue outfit. Together the three of them twirl and turn and spin around the stage in perfect harmony, their moves as graceful as a swan's. Pirouettes, batterie, chassé… the three girls complete every move perfectly. The crowd cheers and claps as the spectacle continues.

All throughout her performance, Santana keeps looking for a particular face in the crowd. That beautiful face she can't see enough of. But they are almost at the middle of the routine, and she hasn't seen her. She doesn't even know if she ever came to New York in the first place.

By the time the dance ascends onto the climax, Santana has lost hope. _She's not coming_, she tells herself bitterly. _She's not coming, get a grip on yourself and stop making silly wishes, Santana. Your grandmother hates you. Period. There's nothing left to discuss. Why would she fly all the way to New York to watch a granddaughter she hates?_

Santana tries with all her might to hold back the stinging tears at the back of her eyes. She can't cry now, not in front of these eager audiences. The dance will be over in a few more minutes; she can cry all she wants then.

She closes her eyes as the three of them ready themselves for a 360 degree spin. Santana spreads her arms wide into the air and wills her body to spin around, the wind brushing her skin, her braids whipping her face and neck. At the ballet, she is free, she is whoever she wants to be, she is beautiful, and she is happy…

She opens her eyes and catches her breath.

She isn't sure at first; she might have just imagined it. But after a second, third, fourth look, Santana is sure that she is not simply seeing things.

In the crowd, in the sea of strangers shadowed by the darkness of the auditorium, lies the face of her beloved Abuelita Alma.

Santana is so shocked to see her grandmother in the audience that she nearly forgets her routine for a split second. Seeing her in danger of drifting out of focus, Brenda calls out her name in warning, and Santana catches herself before she embarrasses herself in her debut performance.

Throughout the rest of the show, Santana's eyes are trained only at her abuelita. Abuelita Alma notices Santana looking at her and gives her a tiny smile.

Santana's heart bursts with pride and happiness. She's here! Abuelita Alma is here! And she is here to see her dance! What more could she ask for? What more could she want right now? She is here, and that is all that matters to her.

Without her realizing it, the routine has come to an end. The music finishes with a dramatic note, and the three dancers stand still onstage. The room explodes with applause, cheers, and camera flashes.

"We did it," Lulu gasps, her entire body soaking with sweat. "We did it!"

"It was great!" Brenda agrees, grinning at Lulu and Santana. "We rocked the house!"

"Look at all those people clapping for us," Lulu breathes in awe. "Santana, look, your friends are cheering for you. You were unbelievable – they must be so proud of you."

But Santana isn't looking at Rachel, Kurt, and Adam; she isn't looking at Miss July, or even Madam Tibido, who were both giving her looks of approval; she isn't even looking at the hundreds of audiences clapping for her. All she sees is a lone figure in the distance, who is now on her feet, a tearful smile on her face, clapping her hands, and waving at her from her seat. All Santana sees is that wrinkled face, that short-cropped auburn hair, and those gentle, warm eyes. All she sees is her heart. Her love.

Her eyes are trained on Abuelita Alma's alone.

* * *

THEN

Santana's first public performance was a disaster.

She was only nine, and she was so nervous she nearly vomited on her teacher's shoes. When the curtain was lifted up and she saw how many people were in the audience, her stomach did a somersault.

She could make out familiar faces in the bustling crowd – her parents, sitting just a few rows away from the front of the stage, her Dad holding a camera and her Mom snapping pictures from her phone; her Auntie, Mari-Anna, who was visiting for the weekend with her five-year-old son, Leo.

But Santana's eyes zeroed on the one person who mattered most – Abuelita Alma, sitting right next to Leo, waving her hand at Santana as she held the younger boy's hand. Santana gave her grandmother a terrified look. Abuelita Alma just nodded her head and stared straight at her, eyes filled with emotions.

Santana understood immediately what her grandmother's look meant – she was scolding her for being afraid. She could almost hear Abuelita Alma's voice in her head – _what are you afraid of, silly girl? People are here to watch you, don't make a fool of yourself! Head up, stand straight, and just dance, for bloody sake!_

Santana whimpered; her grandmother's stare didn't help. She was still scared.

She was still trembling when the music started. Her heart was still hammering inside her chest as she and her fellow ballerinas started moving to the beat. They spun around the stage, arms raised high in the air. They coordinated one another's movements, all the while never failing to presume an air of grace and dignity.

It was in the middle of the routine – Santana's foot slipped over the stage's edge and, before she knew what was happening, she found herself sprawled on the cold, hard floor.

A few collective gasps were heard from the audience. Juan and Maribel Lopez were on their feet. Santana's face was so red she could have passed for a tomato. She was at a loss for what to do, and she was on the verge of tears. She would have done nothing but stay on the floor if her ballet teacher hadn't snuck her head out of the backstage curtain and ordered for her to get back up.

The rest of the performance went by without any other trouble, thankfully. But when the show finally ended and the ballerinas had disappeared behind the red curtain, Santana broke down and started crying.

Her friends tried to console her, trying to tell her that it wasn't her fault. Her ballet teacher, though still a little furious at her, also told her that no one was blaming her.

But Santana could not stop crying. She was still in tears when her parents, Auntie, cousin, and, finally, abuelita, came to find her backstage.

"_Mija, _don't you worry," Juan Lopez said, taking her daughter into her muscular arms. "You did great. It was just a tiny slip. You'll be all right."

"A tiny _slip_?" Abuelita Alma's stiff voice startled everyone. Santana looked up to find her abuelita frowning at her. "She fell and humiliated herself in front of everybody! Where was your head, girl? Didn't you learn the steps right?"

"Mama, she was probably just nervous," Mr. Lopez said with a sigh.

"What did I tell you about being nervous, Santana?"

"Mama, she's only nine."

"That's no excuse! She did a mistake!" Abuelita Alma snapped. "You know what that means, don't you?"

Santana lowered her head, ashamed. "That I should practice more," she whispered.

"Exactly," Abuelita Alma nodded in satisfaction. "You've learned your lesson. Next time, make sure you don't make a fool out of yourself, you silly girl."

That night, as they were going home from dinner, Santana tugged at her abuela's arm. "Abuela," she had said, "are you mad at me?"

Abuelita Alma smiled. "I'm not mad at you, child," she had answered.

"I'm sorry I let you down, abuela," Santana said sadly. "I made a mistake and I made you and Mama and Daddy embarrassed. I'm sorry I couldn't make you proud."

Abuelita Alma lifted her granddaughter's chin up to meet her eyes. "Now, who ever said anything about you not making me proud?" she asked. At Santana's confused expression, Abuelita Alma continued. "You are a very talented dancer, Santana. Just seeing you up there onstage made me proud. _Pequeño, _you don't have to do anything and I would still have been proud of you. I was just reminding you that you should never make excuses for whatever mistakes you make, and that every time you fall, you have to remember to always get back up. Understand?"

Santana nodded as she absorbed abuelita's words carefully. She promised herself, right then, that she would practice harder, and that the next time she had to perform in front of an audience again, she would not make a mistake. She would be perfect.

Abuelita Alma took Santana's small hand in hers, and together, along with the rest of the Lopez family, they crossed the road.

_I promise, _Santana told herself that night, _I will always make abuelita proud of me. I'll be perfect. Just for abuelita._

**I've decided to make this story a ten chapter. So two more chapters until the end of the story, guys. Thanks for the reviews, I'm glad you like this story. :)**


	9. Unsaid Words

**Hey guys, so no flashbacks on this chapter, because I think what matters most to Santana here is the present, not the past. Also because I can't think of anything to write on the flashbacks, hahaha. Anyways, here you go. A rather melancholic chapter nine. I swear, I get really gloomy when I write this story.**

Chapter Nine: Unsaid Words

"Santana!" Rachel cries, literally pouncing on the Latina girl. "I'm so proud of you! That was the BEST ballet performance I have ever seen and –"

"Thanks, Berry," Santana says with a thin smile. "Now, excuse me –"

"I can't believe how good you were!" Kurt runs up to her next, looking like he is about to burst with happiness. His eyes are wide with excitement and his cheeks are bright pink.

"You were magical, Santana," Adam comes up next, with that amused smile he always has on his face.

"Thank you, but please, just –" Santana squirms as Kurt and Adam move forward to hug her too. Frustrated, she finally jerks the two boys away from her. "_Excuse_ me," she snaps, patience running out of her. She glares at the two, who is now looking at her, perplexed. "I have someone to see."

She walks away, promising to herself that she would apologize to the so-called Kadam later. And Rachel. She should apologize to her too. But right now, she has a more important thing to do.

She's only just walked a few paces, though, before the person she is waiting for appears in front of her.

Santana feels her breath leave her body. Abuelita Alma is standing right in front of her, her lips twisted into an unpleasant frown. Santana's heart can't stop racing as she approaches her grandmother timidly.

"Abuelita," she says quietly. She doesn't know whether to smile or cry. So many questions are running through her head – her abuela came, she watched her performance, and she clapped for her. But now, why does she look so unhappy? Is she still mad at her? Is she here to have another argument with her? Santana really doesn't know what to make of her grandmother now. She doesn't have the slightest clue as to what is crossing the older woman's mind right now. So instead, she says weakly, "You came."

Abuelita Alma straightens herself. "I certainly did," she says curtly. Santana still finds it hard to look at her in the eye.

"Did you…" A lump forms itself in Santana's throat. She swallows, hard, before she finds the courage to talk again. "What do you think of… of my show?"

Abuelita Alma exhales heavily. Santana feels like she was nine years old again, being scolded by her tough grandmother after her disastrous first attempt at a public ballet performance. "You missed a couple of beats," Abuelita Alma says matter-of-factly. "You were a few seconds slower than your two friends, and when you did the _chassé_, you didn't jump high enough. Everyone could see a slight difference in your movement from your two friends'."

Santana lowers her head, ashamed for being inadequate and a failure in abuelita's eyes. She bites her lip, willing herself not to cry. Hasn't she cried enough? She feels like a helpless little girl whenever she is in Abuelita Alma's presence, and she hates feeling this vulnerable.

"But besides that," Abuelita Alma lets out a sigh. "You were amazing."

Santana's head snaps up, shock written all over her face. She stares at her abuelita, wide-eyed, not believing what she just heard from the older woman. "What?" she says, numbly.

To her surprise, Abuelita Alma's lips stretch into a smile. "You were amazing, Santana," she says, and Santana's heart almost leaps out of her chest. "You were beautiful, and you were so graceful. I can't believe how good you have become. You have grown into the talented performer I have always believed you to be."

Santana turns into stone. She can't move, she can't breathe, she can't think. What did her abuela just say to her? Did she just… _compliment_ her? Did she just say that she was… _amazing_? Is this really her abuelita, her Abuelita Alma who is standing, saying all these things in front of her?

She can't say anything. She is numb, speechless, dumbstruck. She feels like she's in a dream; maybe she is. Maybe soon she'll wake up in her apartment in New York, and it would only be a dream. Maybe she's hallucinating, and that her abuela isn't really here, after all…

"Santana," Abuelita Alma's voice brings her attention back. "Let me tell you something. I came here today because I chose to come. I wanted to. It's my own choice, my own decision. I wanted to see you because, it seems, I have some unspoken things I need to say to you."

Santana remains still, not daring to move, in fear of ruining this unbelievable moment.

Abuelita Alma takes a deep breath before starting her explanation.

"Last week, when you came into my house and ranted to me about… how you felt," she says, choosing her words carefully, "Your words got me thinking. What you said to me, about choosing to be proud of who you are, and following your heart… well, Santana, you brought back memories from some time ago."

Abuelita Alma looks away, clearly rather uncomfortable. Santana knows that her grandmother is not one to usually express her own feelings to people; she would criticize and have something to say about everything and everybody, but when it comes to her own feelings, just like Santana, Abuelita Alma finds it hard to be honest. She'd rather shut the doors, pull down the blinds. So she waits, patiently, as her aged grandmother struggles to find the right words and the right way to say whatever she wants to say.

"I remember," she says quietly. "I remember what I said to you, that day, when we were on our way home, and you told me about your bullying at school. I remember, and I remember every other things you thought I had forgotten. I remember that your favorite cookie is cinnamon. I remember us dancing in the rain. I remember my birthday celebrations, each and every one of it. I remember the love letter you wrote me. I even remember your first ballet performance."

Abuelita Alma's eyes are full of emotions as she turns to look at Santana again. There is an internal battle going on inside of her; there is some hidden turmoil as she tries to find the right words to say.

"I remember everything, Santana," she whispers, rubbing a spot on her wrinkled hand. "But I was just too much of a coward, and too stubborn, too full of myself, to admit it, even to myself." She grimaces. "I didn't answer any of your letters, because I was too proud. I didn't return your calls, because I was too spiteful. But, Santana, the main reason why I had avoided you this long is… is because I was ashamed."

If it is possible for Santana's heart to beat even faster, it does. "Ashamed… of what?" she asks cautiously. She dreads for the answer; is her abuelita ashamed of her?

"I was ashamed," Abuelita Alma says, "at myself."

Santana frowns, letting this explanation sink into her brain. "At yourself?" she repeats. "Why, abuela? What were you so ashamed of yourself?"

Abuelita Alma closes her eyes for a moment. "I was ashamed," she begins again. "And angry, at myself, because I couldn't accept you."

"Accept me?" Santana says. "Wait, do you mean –?"

"Yes, Santana," Abuelita Alma nods sadly. "When you told me that you were gay, my first reaction was panic. Then anger. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I have heard these things happen to other people around me. I had a neighbor who was gay once. One of your Daddy's friends was raised by a gay couple. I have always told myself that I have tolerance over them. That I am fine and that I have nothing against them. I have always told myself that, unlike so many other people, I won't judge or prejudice homosexuals just because they are, as people say, 'different.'"

She closes her eyes again. "But when it happened to someone too close to me…" She shakes her head in agony. "Santana, the truth is, I wasn't ready. When you told me, I was shocked. I have never expected my own family to be gay. It just felt surreal, and no matter how hard I tried, that night at my kitchen, to be accepting about it, I found myself unable to."

Abuelita Alma is shaking now. Santana can't believe the words that are coming from the mouth of her grandmother. A part of her still believes that this is all just a dream.

"I couldn't accept it, Santana, and it broke my heart. I don't know why I couldn't, but I just didn't. And, _mi angél, _that is why I told you to get out. That is why I banished you, and told you that you should have kept it a secret. Santana, I was ashamed of myself. I was angry that I could accept other people around me to be gay, but when it came to my own granddaughter, I somehow couldn't."

Santana is too numb and shocked to say anything at this point. She's just hoping that she won't pass out or do anything stupid in front of her grandmother now. She thinks she might be hyperventilating. She's not sure. She doesn't know anymore.

"So… I told you to never see me again. I told you to go. When you left, in tears, that night, I cried myself to sleep. I cursed myself. I hated myself for being so weak, so hateful. Over the next few weeks I tried to bring myself into terms with your issue, Santana, but somehow it was still a real struggle for me. I was still unaccepting, and I hated myself even more."

There are tears in Abuelita Alma's eyes as she continues her explanation.

"When you showed up in my doorstep, a couple of weeks ago, I was shocked out of my mind. I was instantly reminded again of the monster living in me. So I shoved you away. I avoided you, in the hopes that living without me would be better. Why would you be happier with a grandmother who couldn't accept you for who you are, Santana? That's what I thought.

"But then you kept on coming. You never gave up on me. And then, that day, you told me about how _you_ felt about it all, for the first time. And then you told me about love. You reminded me about what loving a person really means. You reminded me, once again, that if I truly loved you, I should always care for you, no matter what happens." Abuelita Alma sniffs. "Your letters came next, and slowly, I think you made me realize that avoiding you really isn't doing anyone any good. Especially you. That when you love someone, you don't ever give up on them."

Abuelita Alma brushes a tear off her cheek. "I once told you that we should never make excuses for our mistakes," she says, and Santana's head spins as she recalls the decade-long memory. "Not accepting you is my mistake, and I never should have made excuses and hide from it. I am not going to run away anymore. I am going to face what I have done, and do whatever in my power to make it right again. You told me how to do it, Santana, and I thank you. You have reminded me what it is to deal with the things you are scared of the most.

"You are my granddaughter," she says. "And I love you. I always have, and I always will. I have to be honest with you that even right now, inside of me, I am still fighting a battle. I am still not a hundred per cent okay with your… situation, but I am learning on how to be accepting. And this time, _mi amor, _I actually _want_ to learn. You have reminded me that when you love someone, you would fight for them and do anything to make them happy. And, Santana, I love you. I love you, and I am taking baby steps, but I am going to fight myself, for you."

Abuelita Alma cups her hands around Santana's face. "Some things are hard to say," she says. "But it doesn't mean that they should remain unsaid." Abuelita Alma's eyes are burning with eagerness as she speaks her next words.

"Santana, I am sorry. And I love you."

Santana is silent for a long moment.

Then, she explodes.

She bursts into tears, hiding her face in her hands. She chokes, gasps, and sobs as she wraps her arms around her grandmother. Abuelita Alma holds her in a tight embrace, and Santana is reminded once again of her grandmother's warmth.

"I love you, abuela," Santana manages to choke out between her hysterical sobs. "I love you so much, I love you, I love you, I love you… don't ever leave me… please, please don't ever leave me again…"

"Never, _mi amor_," Abuelita Alma whispers in her ear. "Never, _mi angél_… I'm here. I'm here for both of us. My sweet, sweet _angél… _Never."

_I promise_.


	10. Dinner

Chapter Ten: Dinner

NOW

"Santana, what's wrong? You've barely touched your food."

Santana blinks in surprise as her abuelita puts her hand on top of hers.

"I'm find, abuela," Santana says, offering her a smile. "I just… can't believe that we're really here. Doing this. The two of us."

Santana and Abuelita Alma are seated at a late-night café, a few blocks away from Santana's apartment. After their tears had pretty much dried back in the NYADA auditorium, they had decided that reconciliation could start with dinner.

All the way home, Santana held on to her abuelita like a baby. She wouldn't let her grandmother go, clinging into her arm as tightly as possible. Now, sitting in the warm, bustling café, under the glow of creamy yellow lights, Santana still finds it hard to believe that this is all not just some kind of dream.

Abuelita Alma is here, sitting in front of her, and they are having dinner together, an _actual_ dinner. Sitting down, ordering food, striking up conversations… Santana has forgotten how nice spending time with her grandmother could be.

"I know that this might be scary for the two of us," Abuelita Alma says, as she smiles at her granddaughter. "But we're going to be what we used to be again. I promise you. I will move Heaven and Earth to right my wrongs with you."

A lump forms in Santana's throat at her grandmother's words. She feels more tears coming, but of a different kind – they are happy tears, ones Santana reserves for special people and special occasions.

"Now eat up, girl, before your pasta gets cold," Abuelita Alma says, returning to her plate of Caesar's salad. "And I want you to eat everything. You must be starving, jumping around the stage like a gazelle. And look at you, you're so skinny! Do your roommates steal all your food or do you starve yourself?"

Santana grins as she picks up her fork. "Yes, abuela," she says, suddenly feeling like a little girl again. "Oh, abuela, I promised that I will tell you about my roommates."

Abuelita Alma puts her fork down. "Do tell me," she says. "Were they the brown-haired pair that squeaked all the way backstage after the show and hugged you like they wanted to pop your eyes out of that small head of yours?"

Santana lets out a laugh; a free, happy laugh that makes her feel good about herself. "Yes, they are the pair that squeaked all the way backstage," she says, nodding. "Gosh, abuela, there are _so _many things that I want to tell you about them, I don't know where to start."

Abuelita Alma quietly takes Santana's hand and squeezes it. "Take your time, _mi amor,_" she says. "I'm not going anywhere."

Santana's cheeks turn pink. She wraps Abuelita Alma's hands in hers, feeling her warm, soft and wrinkly skin. She looks at her grandmother in the eye, and holds her gaze for a very long time.

"I know, abuela." She whispers. "I know."

THEN

"Bah, this is garbage," Abuelita Alma banged her spoon on the table. Santana stared at her frowning grandmother, wide-eyed, as she continued eating her spaghetti. "This food is tasteless. Where's that wretched girl? I want my money back!"

"It's not so bad, abuela," Santana said timidly.

Abuelita Alma snorted. "This junk of a food? No way, Santana. I'm not going to eat this."

"You can't take it back," Santana pointed out to her. "Abuela, why don't you get something else? Dessert, maybe? They have the best cheesecakes."

Abuelita Alma considered her thirteen-year-old granddaughter's idea for a moment before picking up the menu. After flipping through it for a few seconds, she raised her hands and barked to the waitress to get her two slices of cheesecake.

Santana suppressed a laugh. "You really need to tone it down, abuela," she said. "The whole Breadstix can hear you."

"I don't really care who hears me," Abuelita Alma admitted. "I'm not in my best mood. I'm a little behind on my water bills and they just cut my water off. Imagine _that_."

"You can stay at our house, you know," Santana reminded her. "You can share my bed with me."

"_Gracias, mi amor_. But I think I'll stay put for a while. I'll deal with those bills later." Her abuelita said. Santana nodded understandingly and returned to her food.

Absentmindedly, Abuelita Alma picked up a straw from the table and unwrapped it. She toyed with it as she watched her granddaughter eat.

Santana raised her eyebrow. "You want to throw spitballs with that or something?" she asked.

Abuelita Alma's eyes lit up with excitement. "Spitballs, you say?" she grinned. "Well, Santana, be my guest." She offered her surprised granddaughter the straw.

Santana took it gingerly, not knowing if her grandmother was joking or not. She tore pieces of paper from her napkin, stuck it inside the straw, and hesitated. Who should she aim it to?

"Why not grouchy over there," Abuelita Alma suggested, nudging her head towards a tall, blonde waitress. She was known as the grumpiest and coldest waitress in Breadstix. "I'm sure she'll love the new touch to her uniform."

Santana was still throwing her grandmother confused looks as she aimed the straw towards the waitress. She blew into the straw.

The spitball soared through the air, finding a spot in the small of the waitress's back, spotting her black vest.

Abuelita Alma snickered. "That's all you got?" she challenged.

Santana took more papers, crumpled them and reloaded her weapon. She shoot even more spitballs at the waitress, whose back was still turned towards them. She didn't seem to notice the commotion going on behind her, though a few people in the restaurant had turned their heads and joined in the silent laughter.

When Santana had fired at least a dozen spitballs, the waitress seemed to sense something was wrong and turned around sharply.

Santana quickly threw the straw to the ground and looked away, all the while holding back laughter. The waitress was finally aware of her spitball-covered vest, and shot daggers at Santana as she stomped off to the bathroom.

Once the waitress was out of sight, Abuelita Alma and Santana erupted into laughter.

"Oh, did you see her face, abuela?" Santana asked, chuckling. "I'm sure she'll poison our cheesecakes or something!"

"Oh, that was priceless!" Abuelita Alma agreed, and they laughed together once again.

Once they had quieted down, Abuelita Alma smiled at her granddaughter. "Don't lose this, _pequeño_," she said contemplatively.

"Lose what?" Santana asked.

Her grandmother sighed. "You are one of the nicest, most beautiful people I have ever known in my life," she said. "Don't ever stop being you, _mi amor_. Never lose yourself. Because I love you, just the way you are."

Six years younger, Santana had done exactly the same thing as she did tonight – she had wrapped her hands around Abuelita Alma's and stared into her warm, brown eyes.

"I know, abuela." She had whispered. "I know."

Some things just never change.

**And here ends the story of Santana and Alma Lopez. Thank you so much to those who have reviewed, favorited, followed, and liked my story. Special thank you to:**

**_KlaineForeverLover07 (who is beyond awesome),_**

**_Missnewvillage,_**

**_Val-snix,_**

**_Brody,_**

**_And everyone who follows me and adds me or this story to your favorites._**

**Thank you for giving this story a chance, thanks for reading. Now let us wait patiently for the new season of Glee to arrive so we can see more of our beloved Santana, shall we?**

**I'm sorry for any mistakes or disappointments over the story… thanks once again! I'm going to make a Finchel story soon, so if you're a Finchel lover… stick around for that! ;)**


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